Mais Oui
by lyrdevonshire
Summary: It was by pure happenstance that Spencer Reid met Mireille Li, an empathetic yet unsure florist. It was also pure happenstance that Mireille Li met Spencer Reid, her complete opposite, and found herself falling for him.
1. Mireille

Mireille Li had to be careful not to crush the fragile gold flowers as she affixed the miniature bunches to the wire frame. A feat that requires the utmost concentration. It had to be perfect, lest the rage of the mother-of-the-bride be unleashed upon her for a less-than-perfect flower crown. Rose hips were exceptionally fragile, she must handle them delicately.

Maybe that was why when she had felt a hand on her shoulder, Mireille she was more than a little surprised to say the least. Swinging her arm back in reflex, she felt her fist hit something solid. With a yelp, she jumped back. Inadvertently shifting all her weight on the shorter leg of her crooked old stool, she began to tip over.

But she didn't hit the ground.

Opening her eyes, she saw her face had been two inches away from hitting the light hardwood head-on. Holding her still in this position was a set of arms that had managed to grab her in time.

Slowly, they pulled her upright. Her heart was pounding so fast, she was unsure if it had stopped beating for a moment. The sight greeting her when she had finally refocused her vision was a rather intimidating man. Broad shouldered, he seemed to wear a rather serious expression. Next to him, taller, well dressed man. Rubbing his shoulder as if it had been hit.

… It _was _hit.

The moment Mireille realized that she had accidentally hit a customer, she felt her face flush hot.

"Oh my goodness!" she cried, jumping to her feet. "I am so, so, so sorry!"

She covered her mouth with her hands, feeling tears begin to well up in her eyes from embarrassment. She had to blink them away, she couldn't further humiliate herself in front of those customers.

"I'll give you gentlemen a discount on your whole order for this inconvenience! I promise! I am so unbelievably sorry!"

She was so focused on her work she hadn't even heard them enter the shop. Even with the little silver chime she had hung over the door! She was such a fool.

"Miss Mireille Li, right? We aren't customers." the shorter man said, seeming a little befuddled at her sudden barrage of an apology.

The florist couldn't help but give a slow blink. Then blink again.

_Not customers?_

"I'm Agent Morgan. This is Doctor Spencer Reid-" he gestured to the taller man- "We're from the FBI."

"FB… I…?" she echoed. "Like the federal agency?"

Soon a whole new flood of thoughts entered Mireille's mindscape. She wondered what could she have possibly done to incur the wrath of the federal government? She was a law-abiding citizen. Always paid her taxes and filed the proper paperwork. Sure, maybe in the days of her youth there was some underage drinking, but she was young and dumb.

Then it hit her. She had accidentally smacked a federal agent. That opened a whole different can of worms. What if she was arrested for assaulting a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation? She couldn't go to jail. She would probably die there.

"Don't worry, Miss Li. We're only here to ask you some questions," the taller man said, pulling Mireille out of her train of thought.

"Oh- of course!" she replied, her voice still a bit shaky. She hoped they hadn't noticed.

"Do you recognize these?"

The agent laid a set of photographs across the counter. Each photo was of three of her bouquets, taken from various angles. She slid them closer to herself. The paper tag with her store name still attached to each one of her bouquets.

"These are my arrangements, alright," she said, looking back up to the two.

"Do you recognize them?"

"Yeah. Even for custom-made bouquets they're pretty unique."

She pointed at the third photo on the counter, remembering how unusual that one in particular was.

"Begonia, candytuft, primrose…" she mindlessly recited, pointing out each of the respective flowers. "Snapdragon… peony… On their own, not all that unusual. But to order them all together. That never happens. But hey, some people have unusual taste."

She shrugged, before a purple-blue spot in the photographs caught her eye. How strange.

She pointed to the second photograph at tall flowers with smaller violet blooms scattered through the stem.

"See that flower?"

"Monkshood," Doctor Reid said. "Also known as wolfs' bane."

"That's right," Mireille replied, slightly impressed that he was able to identify it right off the bat.

"Right. Highly toxic. Can cause death if mishandled type toxic," she continued, not taking her eyes off the picture. "I refuse to handle it. That was added after I sold these."

"It's in the first and third bouquets too," Agent Morgan muttered, looking over the other photographs once more.

"It's the only one where the same flower was used in more than one bouquet."

"Do you remember who ordered these, Miss Li?" the agent asked.

"Never got his name, but I know his face. Always gave a bit of a creepy vibe. Always paid in cash. You can look at my order logs, if you'd like."She pulled a thick binder from a shelf underneath, dropping the heavy thing on the counter with a _thud._ "Comes in every Wednesday. Always in the afternoon."

Doctor Reid took the binder, quickly flipping through it until he reached the section closer towards the back of the book. He slid his finger down the pages, seeming to only briefly skim over them.

"This would line up with the time of the killings."

_Killings? _she thought. _Just who are these guys?_

"Now that I think about it, it is Wednesday, no? I think he should be coming soon."

The two agents looked at her. She couldn't help but cast her glance aside, unable to meet eye contact with either of the agents.

"You two are free to stay here as long as you'd like."

Today was just one awkward humiliation after the other.

* * *

**Since I wrote the first chapter of Mais Oui over a year ago, I _really _didn't like how I had written it. I also regret the original direction I took the story, so I'm rewriting it! Hope everyone enjoys!**

**L.D**


	2. Spencer

This was so, incredibly awkward.

Mireille attempted to focus on the task at hand. Her hands slightly shaking as she wrapped the last of the flowers for the crown. However, she couldn't concentrate like she had before.

She darted her eyes to the corner of her vision. The doctor, huddled in a corner sitting upon her crooked old stool was flipping through her binder. Every time he turned the page, the plastic binder sheets would hit one another with a quiet _fwip_.

Turning her vision forwards, she saw the agent anxiously pacing up and down the store. The hard soles of his heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floors.

The atmosphere was tense. Quiet, only it wasn't. She wasn't sure if she should say anything. After all, they were so focused. But the awkwardness of the silence was driving her half insane. She had to say something. Anything.

"Miss Li?"

"Gah-!"

Mireille jumped in surprise, nearly knocking over the foam mannequin head she was working on. She quickly grabbed it just as it was about to tip over the counter. Sighing in relief that none of her precious blooms had sustained damage from her clumsiness, she carefully set it back upon the counter.

She turned towards the doctor, whose brows were furrowed in what could only be described as concern.

"My apologies. I'm done with your logs," he said, holding out the heavy binder.

"Oh. Thank you."

She took the binder, quickly setting it behind the counter. Now that she was actually talking to someone, she never so desperately wanted to end a conversation. This man just seemed to witness one silly fumble after another with her. The sooner they left, the better.

"You were quiet focused there, weren't you?" he asked inquisitively, glancing at her work. Materials messily spread about the painted wooden counter.

"I tend to get lost in my thoughts sometimes,"she half laughed. Partially turned back to quickly organize the mess while still remaining half turned towards the doctor as to not seem rude.

"You were earlier too. You hadn't even heard us come in," he said. He seemed to be holding back a humored smile, but Mireille could only feel her face flush. Thinking of the embarrassing first interaction she had with these federal agents.

"I'm sorry about punching you earlier by the way."

She cast her glance aside, not wanting to look at his face lest he realized how embarrassed she was about that.

"Don't worry. I've suffered worse."

He sounded humored. Was he humored by the situation? Though, it was better than him being angry, she supposed.

"I'm not in trouble for hitting an FBI agent, am I?" she said in a lighthearted manner, only half seriously-asking.

"No worries, Miss Li. It was an accident."

She looked up at his face, The corners of his lips were slightly upturned, his eyes softening. He had a nice smile, she would give him that. She turned back to her work, carefully picking up a few small red blooms to place together.

The silence had returned. Though for some reason, it did not feel as awkward as before. This silence was comfortable as Mireille felt some of the previous anxiety and tension melt away.

Carefully wrapping the stems in floral tape, as to not crush the fragile blooms. Holding the small bunch, she took half a step back to observe how the crown looked from a distance.

"Were you an artist at one point, Miss Li?" Doctor Reid asked.

She couldn't help but turn back towards him. More than a little surprised. She had hardly spoken to this man, yet he had pieced together that part of her without so much as a little conversation.

"How did you know?"

"Well, the attention to detail and the meticulous nature of your handiwork suggest a background in art." He paused, gesturing to the binder sitting on the shelf. "Not to mention the hand drawn floral headers in your logs..."

"Well you've figured me out. I was an artist when I was younger. I used to want to be a painter."

"You didn't attend school for art, did you?"

Mireille simply shook her head.

"Majored in international relations. Funny how life works, huh."

"It's alright. Thirty-two percent of college graduates have never worked in a field related to their major."

"So- you read minds or something?"

"Actually I can figure out different traits of people by examining small traces of evidence about them."

"Is that so? So with this whole store around you must be able to tell a whole lot about me."

Mireille gestured about the room around her, before placing her hands flat on the counter and laughing.

"I can tell you weren't always the sole owner of this shop. The shelves closer to the front suggest a more antiquated sort of taste. These shelves are a completely different style. More suited to someone with a sort of 'cute' taste. Suggesting they were bought by someone completely different. You had run this shop with someone older than you."

"My aunt. She's retired now, and I became the new owner. I'm impressed, Doctor Reid."

"I try."

The silver bell above the door rang, filling the small room with its soft chime. Mireille instinctively turned to the front with a cheerful, "Hi! Welcome in!" before focusing in on who customer was.

He was a sort of scruffy man. Poorly fitted wrinkled clothes covered most of his pale, jaundiced skin. His sunken eyes glanced around the shop as he shuffled his way towards the front.

Mireille lowered her voice to a whisper, subtly pointing at the man when he stopped to look at a display in the wide aisle.

"Doctor Reid, the man I was talking about is here."

"Are you sure?" he whispered back, glancing at the man.

"Like clockwork."

Spencer looked at Derek, who quickly met his gaze. Shooting his eyes over to where the man was, slowly making his way towards the register. Derek gave a small, affirmative nod.

Spencer slipped out from behind the counter, slowly approaching the man as Derek took his other side.

"Sir-" the doctor barely managed to utter out before the man reacted.

"Tell Dunnings I'll give him his money soon. I just need time-" he shouted, taking a step back. "A little bit more time!"

"Sir, we're with the FBI," Derek calmly said, showing the man his badge.

"FBI?" The man's fear quickly turned into a scowl. Curling his lips, his graying brows lowered. "What the hell could you possibly want with me? I ain't done nothin' wrong."

"We just need to ask you a couple of questions." Spencer moved a small step to the side, blocking the man's exit route. "Tell me, do the names Elizabeth Aaron, Joanna Wilkonson, or Renee Privett sound familiar to you?"

"I ain't got nothin' to do with them! Get outta my way!"

The man tried to squeeze his way past Spencer. When he realized he was trapped in, he shoved the agent out of the way, causing Spencer to stumble back a step or two. It definitely hurt less than Mireille's accidental shoulder punch earlier. Though he was more bothered be the amount of germs the man must have spread on him.

Derek, clearly satisfied he finally could apprehend this man with good reason, grabbed his arms and forced them behind his back. Thrashing and screaming about how he knew his rights as the agent placed handcuffs around his wrists.

Yet despite being cuffed, he was determined to escape. The man managed to wrangle free from Derek's grasp and attempt to bolt towards the exit. "Attempt" being a keyword as in his mad dash, he managed to run straight into one of Mireille's wire frame shelves.

Things seemed to fall in slow motion before the shelf landed on the floor with a glorious crash. Broken glass and cut flowers scattered across the floor, sitting in an ever expanding puddle of water. Derek managed to grab the man, bleeding from cuts he sustained from the glass shards.

All eyes were on the disastrous display before them. Except for Spencer, who looked at Mireille.

Her eyes were wide with shock, her mouth hanging open as if she meant to speak. But no words came out. Instead, she slowly covered her mouth with her hands.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Li," Derek said softly, restraining the thrashing man.

"It's… It's fine!" she stammered, following with a rather uneasy, unnatural laugh. "If you could just… let me clean up this mess."

Derek look at her with sympathy. Only giving a small nod.

"Of course. Come on."

He forced the man out of the shop. And with the ring of the silver bell above the door, the shop fell silent once again.

Spencer looked at Mireille, who hasn't taken her eyes off the chaos before her. She buried her face on her hands, as if not looking would make the mess go away.

"Are you alright, Miss Li?"

"I've been better," she muttered.

"I'm sorry about your flowers and vases."

Spencer was never any good at offering any sort of emotional condolences. Though Miss Mireille Li seemed upset, it felt only right to at least attempt some sort of comfort.

"Don't worry about it. It's not like it was really your fault anyways. You guys were just doing your jobs." She lowered her hands from her face, looking at the mess with an empty expression. Her eyes blank. "I just need a second to process this…"

"Take your time."

"I think I need to lie down. "Lie down and sleep for a couple of years."

"I understand that is hyperbole, but I would recommend only getting seven to nine hours of sleep a night."

"Ha!" she crowed, cracking a small smile. With a hearty laugh, she folded her arms. Giving a long exhale. "Well… This is nothing I can't handle."

"Could I take your binder by the way? It could be used as evidence."

"Of course."

She reached behind the counter. Quickly grabbing it and holding it out to the agent. Who graciously took it.

"Thank you," he said with a smile.

"No problem." Giving another long breath. She put rolled up her sleeves, putting her hands to her hips. She had an easygoing grin on her face which could only be described as infectious. "Ha… I don't know why I'm smiling. This doesn't seem like something to smile at- does it, Doc?"

"We unconsciously mimic the facial expressions we observe," Spencer replied. He wondered why he said that, it probably wouldn't make her feel much better nor answer her question. Yet, he continued talking. " And when we simulate a perceived facial expression, we partially activate the corresponding emotional state in ourselves. It provides a basis for inferring the underlying emotion of the expresser."

"Is that so…?" she said with a huff, mindlessly staring at the disaster before her.

"Will you be able to clean up this whole mess by yourself?"

"Don't worry about me, I can handle it." She raised her hand, waving it thoughtlessly through the air. "You, on the other hand, better go. Your partner is waiting for you."

"Still… I'm very sorry about your flowers. I wish there was some way I could make up for it."

The woman paused as if to think. Brushing her black hair behind her ear, she remarked with a bit of a snicker: "A cup of good coffee could work. Best stuff you can find."

He smiled, grasping the heavy binder in his hands.

"I'll keep that in mind. ell, take care, Miss Li."

"Thank you, Doctor Reid. Good luck with your case."

And with the ring of the silver bell above the door, she was alone again.

* * *

**the first two episodes of season 15 have me screaming. and not in a good way. that's why I had a sudden burst of inspiration to finish this chapter :D**

**Enjoy!**

**L.D**


	3. Coffee

"Good morning!"

Angela's booming voice echoed through the store, overpowering the gentle sound of the silver bell above the door. Mireille, kneeling on the floor. Placing the fresh flowers that had been delivered that chilly late autumn morning in their respective buckets. And tossing the old ones in a plastic bin for donation. She looked up to Angela, standing above her, with little surprise and little disappointment. Technically the shop wasn't open for another hour, but Mireille always made an exception for Angela. She always brought business. A decision she only occasionally regretted.

"How's my favorite florist in the entire D.C. metropolitan area?" she greeted, flashing her pearly white grin as she placed her hands on her hips.

"Once I finish stocking, I'll get to work on your client's arrangements," Mireille said, looking back at the bucket of yellow chrysanthemums before her, moving on to the red ones that are supposed to sit next to it.

"Hey- I was going to ask you about that _after _you told me how you were doing."

Angela squat down next to Mireille, glancing around at the boxes scattered around the floor.

"Woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, huh?" the wedding planner asked, cocking her head as she watched the florist work.

"Sorry, I've had a lot on my mind recently."

"What's up?"

"Typical family stuff. Lucas is being overprotective even though I'm almost thirty And I can care for myself. My dad's health has been better…"

Mireille sighed, placing the last of the chrysanthemums in the plastic bucket before moving on to the ranunculus she kept. With a sigh, she continued, "And the FBI came to the shop a few days ago, broke some vases, generally caused chaos. The works."

"The _FBI?" _Angela gasped, her mouth open like a fish to which Mireille stifled a small laugh. "The damn _FBI _came here? What did you do?!"

"I didn't do anything. At least I don't think I did," she said, plucking an unsightly leaf off the stem of a sunflower. "They came in looking for some creepy guy who comes in sometimes."

"Damn, that must've freaked you out."

"Yeah no kidding. But the agents were pretty nice. One of them kind of walked around and the other just kind of sat in the back and looked at my records for the year."

"Hm… interesting."

"Like I said, they came in, broke some of my vases, were really sorry about it," she huffed, waving her hand carelessly through the air.

"That's really too bad though."

"It's unfortunate but what can I do about it? Hey, pass me that box next to you."

Angela spun her head around, scanning the floor quickly before setting her gaze on a stack of boxes.

"This one?" she asked, pointing to the top one.

"Yeah."

"It must be a pain to do this all by yourself," the wedding planner sighed, passing Mireille the small but heavy cardboard box.

"Vivian and Samson are coming in later to help me out."

"Still, I think you should hire at least a full-time worker or two."

"I've been doing this for a while, Angela. I've always managed," Mireille replied, placing the crimson flowers in her hand in their respective buckets. "Hand me that other box."

Angela's face pressed into a concerned frown. Her brows furrowing as she scanned the crowded area.

"But don't you think you're even a little stressed managing by yourself? After Katie left it's always just you."

"I've got this handled, you know that."

Mireille placed the last of the flowers in their new home. It was always satisfying to her to see fresh flowers and brand new water. It was the only real good part of a delivery day. She stood up, stretching her arms out before her before relaxing them.

"Well, that's the last of it. I'll start working on your client's stuff right away."

"Right- well…"

Angela stood up, stretching her arms.

"I gotta go, gotta meet some clients at Clint's. I'll come back later to check in. Keep what I said in mind though, okay?"

"Alright, Angela. See you."

"See ya later, miss florist."

* * *

"- and then my uncle stood up and said, 'Thanksgiving at my mother in law's tastes better!'"

With a huff, Vivian finished her tale of Thanksgiving. Leaning on the broom, she sighed dramatically.

"It sounds like your uncle started a war," Samson remarked, placing the bouquet in his arms gently in a glass vase.

"He totally did. My family is crazy, dude."

Vivian picked up a bouquet of red chrysanthemums, turning back to her boss, who seemed to be mindlessly gazing at the wire frame shelf now pushed into the back corner of the store. Vivian for the life of her could not seem to figure out why Miss Mireille had moved the shelf away, leaving a giant empty space in the middle of the store.

"Miss Mireille! You seem distracted?"

Mireille jumped up a bit, snapped out of her daze. She glanced to the girl, who looked at her in genuine concern.

"Hm? Oh, don't mind me," Mireille laughed with a wave of her hand. "If anything, you two should be packing the last of those wedding decorations and loading them into the truck."

"Yes ma'am!"

Vivian and Samson continued their idle chatter. Only this time filing in and out the back door of the store fragile cardboard boxes in hand. Mireille looked back down at the colorful spreadsheet of a schedule for the week. Rapidly tapping her pen against the clipboard, she quietly hummed. She would have to order more tiger lilies before the end of the day, she noted.

The silver bell above the door rang with a start. Mireille cheered a happy, "Hi, welcome in!" to the two women who came through the door. A younger woman, petite with brown hair pulled into a bun. Her long floral skirt flowed about, seeming almost like a part of the shop atmosphere. And an older, tall, willowy woman. Platinum blonde hair pulled into the most tightly painful bun Mireille had ever seen. Head to toe in fitted, white clothing. Her stiletto heels clicking loudly against the hardwood. She seemed quite the opposite of the younger woman.

The younger of the two women, the daughter, Mireille presumed, meekly stepped up towards the counter. Her mother trailing behind her, stopping to inspect every little thing in the shop.

"Hello, Miss. Could I make an appointment for a wedding consultation?" the young woman quietly asked, fiddling with her fingers.

"Oh stop being so wishy-washy dear," the older woman huffed, tapping her foot impatiently against the floor, hands on her hips. "You wanted an appointment today, no?"

"Actually-" Mireille began but was quickly cut off.

"You're not busy right now, right?" the mother huffed, seeming to grow frustrated. "See us to an appointment."

"I'm sorry, but I have to set up at a wedding soon," the florist firmly said, still retaining her cheery smile. "If you would like, I can give you a form to fill out and we can have our appointment tomorrow!"

"Of cour-"

"Nonsense. You will see us _now_," the mother huffed even louder than before, cutting off her daughter.

"I'm sorry ma'am, that just isn't possible. Like I said, I can give you a form and-"

"I heard you the first time. But we want to be seen, _now_."

The woman was getting angry now, leaning over the counter top. So close Mireille could smell her overused Chanel perfume like a cloud that suddenly smacked her in the face.

"Mom it's o-"

"Hush now, Marianne dear. Mommy's talking."

"I would really like to help you, ma'am," Mireille explained, attempting to keep herself calm as she heard the strain in her voice growing. "But like I've already explained to you, I can't today."

"I don't understand. It's just looking at pictures of flowers in a book, right? It shouldn't take _that _long."

The woman rolled her eyes as Mireille, who was yelling in her brain, simply smiled.

"I've already explained it, ma'am. I really don't know how to explain anymore to you I simply cannot today," she explained. She pulled a paper from behind the counter, plucking a pen up from a glass jar. She gently pushed it across the counter towards the women. "However here's a form-"

Before she could finish her sentence, the mother of the bride-to-be grabbed her wrist. Mireille froze up, unsure of how to react. All she could do was sit there, frozen, staring at the woman who seemed to have veins pulsing out of her head. Her face was as red as a beet.

"Do you know who I am?!" she screamed. "Do _not _talk to me like that you dirty c-"

Mireille closed her eyes, bracing herself for yet another barrage of verbal abuse when she felt the tension wrapped around her wrist release. Slowly opening her eyes, she looked up to one Doctor Spencer Reid holding up the woman's arm.

"Please do not grab her, ma'am."

"Doctor Reid!"

"Mom- please let's just-"

"Stay out of this!"

The woman yelled, swinging her arm free from his grasp. She stood up, turning her attention to the agent, who stood with a placid expression on his face.

"Ma'am. If you do not leave right now, I can arrest you for battery."

"Mom. Please… let's go…" the young woman whispered, tugging on her mother's coat.

The woman glared at her daughter, who cast her gaze down. Back to the agent, who simply stood there with his hands in his pockets, then back at the florist. Who had only stood there wide-eyed, watching the whole ordeal unfold before her.

"Hmph. I will be leaving some bad reviews for your shop you dirty little-"

"Mom!"

With a ring of a bell, the tiny shop was quiet again. Mireille sat there, a bit dazed as her brain attempted to process all that had happened in that short amount of time. When it finally hit her that the doctor was there, she jumped, pushing herself away from the counter.

"Thank you, Doctor Reid. I'm so sorry you had to get involved in that," she said, dropping her head in embarrassment. Really, how could she continually have such a humiliating streak in front of the same person?

"It's no issue. Really," he replied with the faintest trace of a smile.

"I feel so bad…" She shook her head. "You shouldn't have to get involved in my business."

"It was the only right thing to do."

"It wasn't my first time getting grabbed. It won't be my last." Mireille laughed, shaking her head. Looking back at the agent, she realized how odd it was for him to be here unless if it was to further his investigation.

"Actually… what are you doing back here?" she asked, tapping her chin. "Need to arrest another person?"

"Oh! Right. I came to give you a check."

Spencer pulled a white envelope out of his bag, holding it out to Mireille.

"A check…?"

She tentatively took it from him, turning the envelope in her hands. Looking at it closely,

"To cover for the damages. It's to prevent lawsuits and that type of thing."

"Ah… I see."

"Oh. And coffee!"

"Coffee?" she echoed, confused.

Spencer held out the brown paper cup in his hand, a wide grin across his face. Mireille's heart felt as if it had skipped when she met his smile. A true, genuine smile.

"You told me to find you the best coffee I could. So here it is. Best coffee in the D.C. area! No cream or sugar. That's how you like it, right?"

"You didn't need to do that!" she exclaimed, firmly pushing the cup back towards him.

"It's to say thank you for your help in the case," he said, reach back out towards her.

"I couldn't possibly-"

"Well it seems like you need it."

"I was _joking._"

"And I wasn't."

"Doctor Reid-"

The well-dressed man simply sighed. It seemed as if something had caught his eye as he quickly turned his head about. Spotting the little black wastebasket a couple feet away, he outstretched his arm. Holding the cup over the wastebasket.

"If you don't take it, this five dollar cup of coffee will go in the trash."

Mireille eyed the cup of coffee. While she felt bad about taking an expensive cup of coffee from a basically-stranger, she felt even worse about waste. She wondered if he had picked out that detail about her somewhere, or if it was simply common sense. Sighing, she threw her hands into the air.

"Alright. I admit defeat," she exclaimed as he smiled, placing the coffee in her hands. Taking a long sip of the bitter coffee, she let out a deep breath. The warmth of the cup soothing on her cold hands, freezing in the early Spring air.

"Thank you, Doctor Reid."

"It's really no problem, Miss Li."

"Please-" she waved her hand- "just call me Mireille."

"Well, Mireille," he began, placing his hands in the pockets of his wool peacoat. "Thank you for everything. We would not have been able to solve the case without you."

"Seriously?"

"I'm always serious about that sort of thing."

"Well… thank you for everything once again, Doctor Reid."

"Please… call me Spencer."

As Mireille let the pungent smell waft towards her, she thought about Spencer's earlier comment. The one about her preference for a plain coffee. She looked towards the man, who was looking around the store in curiosity. Examining decor and the flowers strewn about.

"By the way…" she piped up, breaking their rather comfortable silence. "How did you know I like black coffee?"

He looked back at her. Cocking his head with a bit of a perplexed look before chuckling.

"It's my job."

"That's a non-answer."

"Maybe I'll tell you another time."

The back door swung open with a thud. The old door hitting the wall quite hard as it pushed open. Vivian walked in, Samson following close behind.

"Miss Mireille! We finished loading the truck!" Samson called out, retreating to his stool behind the counter. The only non crooked one in the shop.

"Great!" Mireille exclaimed. Turning back to Spencer, she took another sip of the coffee. "Looks like I have to go-"

Another long sip.

"Thank you again. I really needed this."

Spencer grinned.

"You're welcome, Mireille."

He turned to walk out of the store. Reaching the entrance, he turned back towards her. Giving a small, quick wave.

"Well... Goodbye!"

As the bell above the door rang, Mireille's instinct for customer service kicked in. In a more-than-cheery voice and an enthusiastic wave she exclaimed, "Hope to see you again!"

Spencer paused in the doorway as if he stopped to think, holding the glass pane door ajar. Turning, he gave a small wave with his lips pressed into an ever-so-charming smile.

"I hope so too."

And with the close of a door, the shop was quiet again.

* * *

Spencer Reid was _exhausted._

He looked at his watch.

**3:57 AM**

After all these years, he should be used to this. These long cases with so little sleep. But even standing up his eyes felt as if they were about to fall shut any second.

This was a local case, at the very least. And instead of boarding a jet for a several hour flight back, he could simply walk home and collapse in his very own bed.

Derek was passing by his desk when he abruptly stopped. Spencer was in the middle of shuffling together some paperwork straight as quickly as possible. He would have to be up in a few hours anyhow. His friend slapped a sealed white envelope on his desk.

"Would you mind dropping this at Blue Violets sometime? It's a check to cover the damages."

"Don't we normally mail that type of thing?" Spencer muttered, carefully filing in more papers into his bag.

"We do. But I think _you _should hand deliver it," Derek grinned, pointing a finger gun at Spencer.

"Why me?"

"You and Miss Li talked a lot before," his friend shrugged. "I figured you might want to see her again."

"It's not like that." Spencer simply replied, thinking of the rather chatty florist. "Miss Li is just a very pleasant person to talk to."

"Then go talk to her again. And if you need _any _advice-"

"Alright- alright! I'll go drop it off sometime tomorrow."

"That's my boy. Maybe you could even ask her out for coffee-"

"_Morgan._"

"Just a suggestion!"

It's true. Miss Mireille Li was a very pleasant conversation partner. She was curious and witty and listened to everything he had to offer.

He wouldn't mind getting to see her again. Maybe they could even chat some more this time, since the imminent threat of an active killer was no longer looking over his head. No, he wouldn't mind at all.

And though he was able to pick out details about her based on his profile, he felt he wanted to get to know the florist better.

He shook his head. What silly thoughts. He hardly knew her, after all. Though he supposed that was the point of getting to know her better. For now, all he should focus on was delivering that check.

_"Still… I'm very sorry about your flowers. I wish there was some way I could make up for it," Spencer said, looking at the chaotic display before them. It wasn't her fault that hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise had been destroyed in an instant. She was just the unlucky florist who happened to cross paths with a killer. The guilt weighed heavy on his mind. Especially as to the actual hours she would inevitably have to spend cleaning the broken glass._

_The florist rolled up the sleeves of her grey sweater. She turned towards him, tapping her chin as if to think. As she brushed her pin straight black hair behind her ear, her eyes widened as if she just had a fantastic idea._

_She covered her mouth, chuckling a bit._

_"A cup of good coffee could work," she replied, with a wide grin. "Best stuff you can find."_

"Best stuff I can find, huh…" he muttered to himself as he unlocked the door to his apartment.

* * *

**_"The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness." -Emily Dickinson_**


	4. High Heels

And yet another botched date.

It must have been tweleve o' clock at night. Mireille didn't know, her phone had died. Wincing at the pain in her feet, swollen from spending the evening in those pretty heels. She half considered just chucking them off and going home barefoot. But thinking of the trails of broken glass and cold concrete paths that presented themselves in the streets, she figured a bit more pain couldn't hurt.

She was such a fool. Dressing up so nice for such an arrogant man. Leaving her on the side of the road like that the moment he found a prettier woman to take away. Fuming at the misery of the whole situation as she shuffled into the 7/11. Taking a moment to let her eyes adjust to the too bright fluorescent lights. It was mostly quiet, save for the soft buzzing of the slurpee machine in the corner. She half considered buying a slurpee, but quickly decided against it. It was essentially sugared ice, anyhow. Though she did need some sugar in her system.

Shuffling over to the clear fridges which lined the wall, she scanned up and down for the object of her cravings.

And it was in that moment. As she stood alone in the aisle of the 7/11, a bit tipsy, holding two different bottles of one-dollar chocolate milk. She wondered where she went wrong with her life.

"Miss Mireille?"

A bit taken aback, she stumbled over her unbalanced feet. Swiftly, an arm caught her with a panicked, "Woah!"

The mystery arm propped her back up standing. Turning, she saw one Doctor Spencer Reid standing there. His brows furrowed in what could only be described as a strange mix of guilt and concern.

"I am so sorry," he stammered. "I didn't mean to startle you!"

"Spencer! It's no problem- it doesn't take a lot to scare me."

Spencer put his hands in his pockets. Though it had been approximately fifteen days since he had given the florist her check, she had occasionally popped up in his mind again and again. He couldn't help but wonder how she was doing, for some odd reason.

"Fancy running into you here," he managed to utter.

"D.C. is pretty small." Mireille paused as if to think. She brought her hand to her face, bursting into a small chuckle. At least, compared to New York!"

"What are you doing out so late?"

"People are awful."

"I don't think all people are awful. You're not."

"What about you?"

"Is that chocolate milk?"

He knew she noticed his sudden change of subject. Judging by her pursed lips and narrowed eyes at him, she most definitely noticed as was the least bit suspicious. Thankfully, she didn't push it any further.

"Yeah. Late-night cravings, you know," she cheerfully explained, holding out the two cartons towards him. "Which one do you think should I get?"

He pointed to the brown contained in her right hand, remembering it to be the same brand that his mother would pack for him as a child.

"That one tastes better, if I remember correctly."

She looked at the one he pointed to, then back at the one in her other hand. Then back, then forth. After placing the one in her left back into the fridge, she turned to him.

"I'll take your word on that," she smiled.

"So what are you looking for at this unholy hour of the morning?"

"I'm quite hungry. I haven't eaten in several hours."

"You know what? So am I. Come on-"

Mireille motioned him to follow her. Curious, he trailed her as she weaved through the linoleum aisles. He noticed she was walking strangely, taking long strides as if to minimize the amount of steps she had to take. She led him to a circular, refrigerated stand. Picking up the crinkling packaging gleaming under the fluorescent lights, she tossed it at him. Which he had barely caught in surprise.

"Have you ever had one of these before?" she asked, glancing over the wide variety of packages.

"I couldn't say so."

Spencer turned the cold package in his hands, reading the bold red letters that lined the front, examining it with genuine curiosity and maybe slight concern. It appeared to be some sort of microwavable turnover containing some form of cheese and meat.

"Definitely not the most healthy, but they're good in a pinch," Mireille admitted, plucking up one of the packages for herself, "I used to eat these pretty frequently in college."

Walking towards the register across the luminescent walkway. She placed the carton and package on the counter, searching through her bag for her wallet.

"Do your feet hurt, Miss Mireille?" he asked, looking down to the vibrant red heels which stood out against the white linoleum.

"Huh?"

"You're walk cycle indicates that you've been wearing those heels for a very long time-" he motioned to the ground- "and that you're very uncomfortable."

"Read me like a book, eh doc?" she said with a bit of a smile, handing the man across the counter a few bills and coins.

"It's my job."

Spencer stepped up to the register as Mireille stepped away. Her shoes making a sharp clicking sound against the floor.

"My feet are killing me," she muttered, looking down at her shoes. "But I have to keep wearing them. I don't wanna walk home barefoot."

"Take my shoes then," he offered as they walked out of the store, stopping just outside the entrance. She merely shook her head in response.

"Then you'll walk home barefoot."

"It's alright. I insist."

"It's really not. Do you know how much broken glass is on the sidewalks?" she huffed, motioning to the glimmer of crushed bottles scattered about on the concrete. Shimmering under the silver street lights.

"I can wear your shoes then," he offered, only half joking.

Shaking her head once more, she said, "No offense, but even with my giant man feet I don't think you can fit into my shoes."

"I can't let you walk home in those shoes."

"I can't let you walk home without shoes."

"The back of your heels. They're rubbed raw," he said, pointing to the ground.

Mireille looked down, slipping her foot half way out the shoe to asses the damage. He was right. The back of her heels had been completely skinned. Wincing in pain as the wound had been exposed in fresh air, she sighed.

"Spencer, with all due respect, we will _not _be switching shoes."

* * *

"I cannot believe you found a way to get around the switching shoes thing."

Mireille held herself tighter against Spencer's back, not wanting to slip off. This was much taller than she was used to, the ground seeming so far away from this distance. Peeking over his shoulder, she noticed his easygoing smile still hadn't faded from his face.

"I wasn't going to let you walk so far in those shoes," he laughed, adjusting his arms tighter around her legs.

"You really didn't have to do this."

"Nonsense. It's dangerous to walk alone at night. That's how many victims in my cases get abducted!"

"How pleasant," she muttered, pressing her lips into a slight frown.

"Besides, I live in this direction anyways."

She wondered where that enthusiasm came from. And while he seemed genuine to a fault, she felt as if he was over compensating for something else. After all, she had seen it all before in her line of work.

"Aren't your arms tired?" she asked, holding his shoulders yet tighter as she felt herself falling off his back.

"Not in the slightest," he answered, readjusting himself to prevent her from slipping down even further.

"Sound like a liar to me."

Spencer smiled. If anything, a bit amused at the entire situation. Maybe his arms were a bit tired, but he wouldn't admit that aloud to her.

"You should get rid of those shoes," he chuckled as they waited to cross the quiet street.

"You're probably right," she sighed, looking down from over his shoulder. The rhinestones on the crimson shoes glimmering like jewels in the dim streetlights. "But they were expensive. And they're my only nice pair of shoes."

"You've had them for a long while, no?"

"You can tell that too?"

"It's your lingering emotional attachment to them, not the monetary cost, that seem to prevent you from getting rid of them. My guess is someone important gave them to you."

Mireille felt her face flush. He really had read her like a book. It really was one embarrassment after another with this Doctor Spencer Reid. Though maybe it was what she needed. Someone to call her out on her lingering attachments.

"You know-" she began, unsure of how to continue. "You never told me what you were doing out so late."

He didn't respond, as if her statement had brought back something horrible memory. Something he was still moving on from, if she were to guess. Despite his efforts, he was still hurting, just like many people she met.

Her chest clenched with guilt for bringing up something painful. Despite her curiosity at the reasons behind the memory, she knew better than to press further as they fell back into the same uncomfortable silence.

She began to panic slightly in her mind, deciding how he probably definitely disliked her for bringing that up. Of course, her brother would probably tell her she's being melodramatic. However, guilt continued to give her a crushing feeling in her chest and she concluded in her mind that he probably now had a much, much lowered opinion of her.

"You don't have to tell me, if you want," she quickly offered, unsure of what else to say.

"In truth, I've been having trouble sleeping."

"You too, eh?"

"Hm?"

"Insomnia is the worst. But no matter how little sleep you get, you still have to get up and get on with the day."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"I guess it's the dreams," she mindlessly murmured, wrapping her arms tighter around him.

"Excuse me?" Spencer said, unable to pick out more than the last bit of her sentence.

"Oh! Sorry I was just talking to myself."

"Dreams?"

Mireille flushed once more. He had heard that?

"Er- yeah. It's actually sort of embarrassing," she muttered, twiddling her fingers. "I used to fear dreaming. So my solution was to not sleep."

There she went again, talking about nonsense. He probably thought she was crazy, bringing up something as silly and irrelevant as dreams. And yet, she continued to talk. As if he had broken a dam of feelings and thoughts that she had been holding for so long.

"This ruined my life for _months_. But after…" Her voice faltered. She looked down to her hands, wondering if she should really tell him about all of this, though they barely knew one another. But she felt comfortable around him. Like… he was a good friend or something.

"People will always tell you '_you have to let go_' but it's stinkin' _hard _to do that!" she huffed. "Especially when that person was so important to you. Death is a big freaking deal. All the logic in the world can't dispute that."

"So how did you let go?" he asked, his voice soft. He was hurting, she could tell. Like with so many who came to her, he must have lost someone very dear to him.

"With a little bit of help from those who love me," she started, feeling small. "And mostly, myself. At the end of the day it is my life. No matter how you look at it, the dead are dead. You have to keep living for those who love you- the living."

A silence fell between them. And though she was holding onto his back, Mireille felt as if her statement had driven a wall between the two of them. The silence felt deafening, the only sound in the air being the faint whir of cars that would occasionally speed past.

"I'm sorry," she finally managed to utter. "That got really depressing really quick!"

"No, no-! You're right!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "No matter how much you wish it, the dead will never come back."

"What I'm trying to say is- take things at your own pace. But my advice is really nonsensical honestly so I don't think you should listen to me-"

"I don't think it is. Actually, I think quite the opposite. I think it makes much more sense than you believe."

"You know," she began, looking up to the dark, starless sky. "Sometimes you just gotta scream at the top of your lungs. Whether it be off a bridge or into a pillow- just scream. Just like, _ah-!_"

She leaned back a bit, throwing an arm outward. Trying not to suddenly shout by his ear. However, this seemed to quickly backfire as he began to wobble.

"Woah!" he shouted, leaning forward to offset the sudden imbalance.

"Agh! I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, quickly wrapping her arms around his shoulders once more. "I didn't mean to cause you to lose balance!"

"It's no worries- no worries!"

As he laughed, Mireille wondered why she felt as if her heart had skipped a beat. She hoped he couldn't feel the pounding in her chest, hearing her heart thump in her ears.

As they came upon a corner, she gently tapped him on the shoulder.

"You can drop me here."

"Are you sure?"

Spencer stopped, letting Mireille cautiously step down from his back. Careful as to not trip in her shoes.

"Yeah, my apartment is just over there." She motioned toward her right. "I'll be fine walking the rest of the way."

"If you say so."

"Thank you so much, Spencer."

"It's really no problem, Miss Mireille." He motioned forwards. "My place is just over that way anyways."

"Please Spencer, 'Mireille' is just fine."

"If you say so."

Smoothing out her wrinkled green dress, she looked back towards him.

"I really cannot thank you enough. For everything," she said, pulling her wool cardigan tighter around herself.

"I should be the one thanking you," he replied, the corners of his lips pressed into a small smile.

"Me?" Mireille pointed to herself, a bit in disbelief. "Why?"

"You're more helpful than you believe."

He placed his hands in his pockets. He was tired from carrying her, she could tell. A pang of guilt wrenched in her chest. If she were to see him again, she would have to treat him to something, she noted.

"Well- make sure to tell me what you think of the Hot Pocket!" she said, unsure of what else to say.

"I will, don't worry," he replied, his smile widening.

Mireille turned towards the direction of her building. Quickly half-turning back, she waved.

"Well… goodnight, Spencer."

"Goodnight, Mireille."

* * *

There are simple facts to life. The sky is blue, the Earth is round, the Sun is a star, and Mireille Li fell in love easily.

And as with all facts, there were people who accepted such obvious facts without qualms and people who denied every factor of the facts.

Mireille in fact, was more likely than not completely aware of the fact she fell in love easily. However, she continually seemed to deny this very basic fact of her life.

Picking up one of the crimson shoes, she turned it about in her hands. It was a beautiful pair of shoes. The floral lace overlay giving them a beautiful sheen in the light. _He _gave them to her all those years ago. They would have cost a significant amount to him at the time.

"_It's your lingering emotional attachment to them, not the monetary cost, that seem to prevent you from getting rid of them. My guess is that someone important gave them to you."_

How could he have seen right through her? Mireille wondered if he could read her mind, or maybe if she just made everything about her life that obvious.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to chuck those old shoes into the trash. Standing up, she carried the shoes over to the silver trash can. Holding them away from her, she told herself on the count of three she would drop them in.

But after three seconds her hand refused to let them go. Then another three. And another three. Frustrated with her inability to make a decision, she quickly set them away in her closet. Placing them behind an old shelf stacked with piles of clothes.

Wondering if she had remembered to take her pills today, she crawled atop her comforter. Lying flat, sprawled across her bed. Staring blankly at the coffee and cream colored ceiling above.

_"I hope so too."_

Immediately feeling her face flush with heat, she grabbed her pillow and held it tight against her chest. Rolling onto her side, she buried her face deep in the pink fabric.

How could she develop feelings for this man whom she barely knew? Yet as she replayed that moment in her head over and over again, her heart seemed to flutter.

She imagined his messy brown hair, paired with his sort of boyish grin. Their conversations that seemed to last forever yet no time at all. He was pretty damn intelligent too.

It was foolish, she knew. She didn't even know if he already had someone or not. She was probably never going to see him again, anyways, she figured, as her eyes began to close. Yet, everytime she replayed the little moments. Bantering with him about shoes. Being carried back to her apartment. Him saying, "I hope so too" all that time ago, Mireille couldn't help but hope that maybe they would run into one another again and again after that.

* * *

**That S15 episode 4 though... I'm so happy for Spencer :')**

**Until next time!**

**L.D.**


	5. Petrichor

**_"Happiness held is the seed; Happiness shared is the flower." – John Harrigan_**

* * *

It was a nice spring day, or about as nice as you could get with summer but a week away. It wasn't too hot, nor too cold. It was just one of those days that you could lay sprawled out on the emerald green grass, feeling the sun on your skin with your eyes closed.

And Mireille Li must have seemed so odd in that vast park alone. Surrounded by a mix of couples on a picnic and groups of shouting children kicking around a soccer ball. As she mixed the watercolors on her little palette, running her brush across the textured paper, she was glad that her day off was on such a nice day.

The flowers were in full bloom. And set against the backdrop of the glittering pond, it made for the perfect little scene to draw out. It seemed so unrealistically that she minded. She had to make the most use of her off days after all, with how busy the wedding business got in the spring. It was pleasant to unwind at the end of the week, considering how she ran almost entirely on coffee and pure willpower most of the time.

Leaning against the trunk of the tree providing her shade, Mireille drowned out all the chattering noises of the busy park around her. Color matching to the pretty pink blossoms she had made the subject of her painting as they slowly wavered in the breeze.

She hadn't noticed how much time had passed, really. How many people came and left as she continued to dabble away on the textured paper in her lap. She had to get the shading just right after all.

"Miss Mireille-!"

Snapping back into reality, Mireille nearly dropped her brush as she jolted up. Quickly looking around, a dark flash hit the corner of her eye. Turning her head around, she noticed one Doctor Spencer Reid standing beside her. Well dressed in his neatly pressed, dull colored clothes as always. His hands in his pockets, and that ever-so-charming smile on his face.

"Fancy running into you here," he chuckled, leaning against the trunk of the tree.

"Spencer!" she exclaimed, setting her brush down. "I'm starting to think that these run-ins are less and less coincidental."

She laughed, watching his face turn from amused to slightly concerned.

"I assure you Miss Mireille- they're purely co-"

"I'm messing with you," she said with a smile, before letting out one last chuckle. "D.C. isn't that big."

Spencer's face went from concerned, to perplexed, to a relieved smile in the matter of seconds. He motioned towards the empty area by his feet.

"May I sit?"

"Go ahead."

"You have quite the focus, you know that Miss Mireille? I must have been standing here calling your name for at least a minute or more."

"Spencer, you can call me Mireille."

"Oh!" he replied, his eyebrows raised as if he had just been startled. "Of course! Well, Mireille…"

"How long have you been working on that painting?"

"A couple of hours, maybe."

She tapped the back end of her brush to her chin, gazing mindlessly up at an overly-fluffy white cloud above, drifting lazily across the blue sky. She looked back down at the paper before her. She wasn't satisfied with it. It seemed so- _flat- _compared to the world before her.

"Well it looks wonderful so far. You have quite the unique style."

"No, not really."

" So what are you doing out here on a nice day like this?"

"It's my day off, so I thought I'd go for a walk. During cases I don't get out much. So it's nice to be able to have some outdoor leisure time."

"It's always good to get fresh air. Too much indoor time makes you a little stir-crazy eventually."

"Actually when people are isolated, they tend to feel more paranoid. Sensing danger around every corner. When we're around other people, we sort of 'reality test' our paranoia. According to the Social Baseline Theory, our brains expect regular access to social relationships, and can experience stress when deprived. Which could explain the concept of 'stir-crazy.'"

"That makes a scary amount of sense."

"Doesn't it?"

"So what happens, say, if someone were to have regular interactions. But not with people they're necessarily close to. Like- say all their close relationships lived pretty far away. How would they feel?"

"Well, during the Industrial Revolution people began migrating from close-knit communities that they've grown up in their entire lives to big cities for work. Scientifically, no matter how many connections you have, you can still feel lonely if they lack any real intimacy."

Spencer paused. He was info-dumping again. Looking over to Mireille, watching her expression to see if she was only smiling and nodding out of respect as so many did. But upon looking at her, he realized she was closely listening. Having set her brushes and palette down on the grass beside her, she seemed to be hanging on to his every word.

"When you're away from those close-knit communities, no matter how many bonds you form outside of it, you tend to feel isolated because our brains are programmed to desire those close connections."

"Close connections…" she echoed quietly.

"The way our world progressed made it possible for people to survive outside of those tight networks so crucial for early survival. But because our brains are still hard wired the way they were ten-thousand years ago, it's made loneliness pandemic of sorts in the modern world."

"So how do you fix it?"

"Fix?"

"Yeah. Feeling… Isolated. Lonely."

Spencer looked at Mireille, who seemed to have a bit of a mindless expression on her face. With a slow blink, she seemed to snap back into reality.

"Not- not that I'm lonely or anything! I'm just curious about the science of it, that's all!"

A lie, obviously. Spencer would never say that to her face, though. He could only smile and nod in response.

"Studies have shown that changing maladaptive thinking is likely the most effective method of treating loneliness."

"What do you mean?"

"When people are chronically lonely, they become increasingly sensitive to the negative actions of those around them. This creates a type of negative feedback loop that causes already lonely people to continue to self isolate."

"I see…"

"So if this lonely person just pauses before they tell themselves that people hate them, they can approach new relationships. Relationships that are likely the kind that they need. Emotionally intimate and close knit."

Before Mireille could even respond, Spencer felt something cold touch his shoulder.

"Did you feel that?"

Spencer spun around, holding his palm facing upwards as if he was looking to catch something. He readjusted himself, now sitting straight up away from the slanted trunk of the tree. Looking up, he noticed that clouds had seemed to suddenly gather like a blanket in the once clear sky.

"Feel what?" Mireille asked, watching the doctor look up.

"It felt like a rain droplet."

"Can't say I- huh!"

Mireille placed her hand on her head, having just felt a cold drop land there. Before she could even say anything, the droplets began to come lightly in quick succession. The droplets became heavier and heavier, pouring from the skies.

"There's more," Spencer noted with the same sort of tone you'd use to make simple smalltalk with a cashier, reaching into his bag.

Mireille, however, was less calm.

"Where did the rain come from?!" she exclaimed, quickly pulling her belongings together.

"There was an eighty-seven percent chance of precipitation this morning."

"Here- take these-"

Mireille quickly placed an unsteady stack of supplies in Spencer's hands as she quickly shoved various items into a large brown satchel.

"Huh-"

"I have to pack all my stuff quickly before it gets soaked!"

Spencer could only watch. Standing up, he pulled a collapsed black umbrella from his bag. Quickly unwrapping it and pushing it open, he held it over the florist's head. She paused, noticing the sudden lack of rain falling on her skin. She glanced up at the doctor, who couldn't help but smile.

* * *

Mireille couldn't help but feel awkward around the doctor. She was still embarrassed that she hit him the first time they met- while he was on duty nonetheless! Not to mention he seemed to continuously startle her every time they ran into one another.

She quietly hoped he wasn't annoyed at her. First for asking all those ridiculous questions and now lending her his umbrella because she was too foolish to check the weather.

"I can't believe it just started to pour. I didn't even get to finish my painting."

She sighed, tightening her grip on her damp bag as the two of them waited to cross the busy intersection. Looking down at her feet, she watched the streams of water in the gutters quickly pour into the sewers below.

"Chin up, Mireille." Spencer placed his hands in his coat pocket as he held the dark umbrella over the two of them. Slightly tilting it as the wind moved the rain in all sorts of directions. "Where are you headed next?"

"The station."

"I'll walk with you then."

"Today was so clear too…" Mireille muttered, reaching out her hand to feel the drops pouring from the sky. "I didn't even think to bring an umbrella."

"It's a good thing I always keep one around," Spencer replied in attempted reassurance.

Though she opened her mouth to respond, no words came out of it. Instead, her lips pressed back together into a tight O shape. Squinting her eyes in suspicion. Just as he was about to ask what was on her mind, she spoke.

"Why are you walking so far away?" she huffed. "You're getting wet! Come on-"

Grabbing the sleeve of his coat, she pulled him back underneath the umbrella.

"Pardon me, Mireille. But I'm a bit squeamish around close contact. Germs- and all that."

"You know what germs are even worse? Germs from if getting sick because you're soaking wet. Come on. Besides, it's _your_ umbrella. If anybody should be getting wet it's me."

"You know… I actually really like the rain. There's something about it that's so… relaxing. I feel calm. Safe, even."

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, a soft smile creeping up onto her face. Opening her eyes again, she flashed a big brain. Clapping her hands together.

"Plus, rain is great for my flowers!"

"You know, some theories state that people like the rain because it makes their problems seem insignificant. The rain reminds them that there are forces bigger than they are, so their problems seem so little in comparison. Oh! And the smell of rain that people find so relaxing- it's called petrichor. When rain hits a porous surface, it releases bubbles with aerosols and other components like bacteria which creates petrichors distinct smell! Some evolutionary theorists believe that people enjoy the smell of petrichor because our ancestors relied on the rain to bring fresh water."

"The smell of rain-" Mireille felt herself relax, since when had she been so tense? "It brings back a super-specific memory for me."

"Is that so?"

"I was sixteen. I was at Luna Park on Coney Island with my friends after school. I'm from New York, y'know. I remember it was on a Friday. We were on the boardwalk when it started pouring all of the sudden." She made an exaggerated hand motion, as if to mimic rain falling from the sky. "We ran up and down the beach barefoot. It smelled so strongly of rain. Or, I guess as you say, petrichor."

"Well the sense of smell is closely linked to memory. More so than our other senses."

The two walked in relative silence. Though it was unlike the uncomfortable silences that she had grown accustomed to. The air around them filled with the sound of the pouring rain pattering upon the empty sidewalk and their footsteps against the wet pavement.

Mireille hadn't even realized how close the two were under the small umbrella. She could feel the warmth from his body in her cheeks, or maybe she was just flushed. She could even hear her heart pound in her ears as she glanced down at her boots, hoping he wouldn't notice her pink cheeks.

"By the way, that night…"

"Hm?"

She had spoken without thinking first. As if speaking was the only way to salvage her dignity at blushing at something so silly. And yet, she couldn't seem to stop talking.

"The night we ran into each other at the store. Something was bothering you-" she twiddled her thumbs- "Did you ever… I guess, for a lack of a better word, 'solve' whatever was bothering you?"

Spencer was silent for a moment, as Mireille made a mental note to kick herself later.

"... Yes. I did."

"Good. I'm glad."

As they turned the corner, they stopped just before the station entrance. He turned towards her and smiled.

"Here's the station."

"Thank you for walking with me."

Silence.

"Well, goodbye then," he said, turning away.

As he turned to walk away, she recalled that he lived only a few blocks away from her. By all logic, they would use the same station to return home from their location.

"You're not headed home?" she couldn't help but let slip.

"Hm? Oh no-" he waved his free hand in the air- "I have nothing to eat at home. So I'm going to find some Indian food."

"Do you mind if I join?" Mireille wanted to cover her mouth as soon as she said that. She wondered if she made her little "crush" on him obvious. "I'm starving. Plus, I know a good place nearby."

"Sure." Spencer smiled, waving her over. "Come on."


End file.
